


Everybody Knows, Mate

by mnwood



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom Tommy Shelby, Canon Compliant, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Season/Series 02, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:48:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23976259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnwood/pseuds/mnwood
Summary: The first time Tommy meets with Solomons to do business with him, he notices something different about the man. It's not exactly a secret, and Solomons is not exactly trying to hide it, but Tommy is not sure what he is supposed to do about it. As their business relationship develops, Solomons becomes increasingly more brazen about his proclivities, and Tommy doesn't stop him.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 30
Kudos: 201





	Everybody Knows, Mate

The bakery, somehow, smells like bread. Tommy’s head is pounding, his right eye feels like it has exploded, and his nose is clogged, but he has his wits about him enough to detect the scent of freshly baked bread and to determine that it would be a very bad idea to ask Mr. Solomons _how_ exactly it smells like bread.

In his office, Mr. Solomons postures and toys with Tommy, talking in circles and keeping that right hand by his desk drawer, and Tommy knows this game and knows what it means, but the only thing he can think about is how relieved he is to be sat in a chair, the pain of his injuries subsided for now. He could have used at least another day in hospital.

When Solomons pulls a gun with his left hand and points it at Tommy’s forehead, Tommy very nearly flinches not because he is afraid—he’s never been afraid to die—but because Solomons just changed the rules of the game, or removed them completely, and now Tommy knows he is dealing with a man who lacks reason. Tommy feels blood trickling out of his nose, but he cannot move. It was a mistake to come here, to think he could play on this level. But when Solomons tosses a handkerchief at him, Tommy accepts it and wipes the blood from his face. Solomons is talking about shipping parts of a cabinet to Mandalay and asking Tommy if he’s ever been to Timbuktu, and just as Tommy is realizing he did not only lose control of this conversation but never had any control over it to begin with, Solomons smiles and says, “Yeah, I always thought tha’ you’d have a great big fucking gold ring in your nose,” and then asks to hear Tommy’s plan.

Tommy takes a moment to gather his thoughts, refocus, and just before he begins speaking he notices Solomons staring at him, unblinking. He looks both angry and attentive as Tommy explains his plan, and while Tommy is confident in his ability to convince people to work with him, he is not confident that he can convince a rational response out of an irrational man. However, after a few minutes of uninterrupted speech, Tommy goes silent and waits a fraction of a second for a response before Solomons leans forward in his chair, claps his hands together and looks past Tommy to where Ollie is sat.

“Right, so we’ll be needing a contract, yeah,” Solomons says, gesturing to Ollie. “C’mere, love, write this all down for us, you know, like it fucking matters—” Solomons waves his wrist around as Ollie puts pen to paper, “—like Mr. Shelby here won’t break the fucking contract as soon as it aren’t convenient for him anymore. Yeah, tha’s it, write it all down, there it is.”

Solomons places his glasses on the bridge of his nose and scrunches his face up as he watches the paper, his nostrils widening and his lips disappearing into his beard in a look of concentration. After a few seconds, he places his fingers against the back of Ollie’s writing hand and rubs, seemingly gently. “No, no, love, fuck that—scratch tha’ out. OK, yeah, that looks all right, now.” He takes the piece of paper in both hands and reads it over before tossing it across the desk to Tommy and then turning back to Ollie. Tommy ignores the contract as he watches Solomons rub the backs of his fingers down Ollie’s cheek in thanks, finishing by running the pad of his thumb across the younger man’s lips. Ollie’s face does not change. When he gets up to move back to his spot on the other side of the room, Solomons watches him, his eyes shifting over Ollie’s entire body before turning back to Tommy. He removes the glasses from his nose and raises his eyebrows at Tommy, daring him to say something.

They sign the contract. Tommy leaves.

Tommy brings his hundred men with him the next time he comes to Camden Town. A few of Solomons’ men lead them to form a queue outside Solomons’ office while Tommy smokes a cigarette and takes a look around the bakery. He spots Solomons standing hunched over a table in a dark corner, scratching something onto a piece of paper while a small man watches beside him, nodding at whatever Solomons is explaining to him. Solomons stands upright after a moment and tucks the paper into the front of the smaller man’s apron, right near his groin, then he pats the man’s face and leans in close. Tommy inhales deeply on his cigarette and watches curiously as Solomons whispers in the man’s ear, his hand resting between his neck and jaw to keep him in place until he finishes what he has to say and kisses the man’s cheek before pulling away. The smaller man hurries off, digging the paper out of his apron as he goes. Solomons watches him before turning his eyes directly on Tommy, as if he knew he was there the whole time. Tommy finishes his cigarette and walks over to him.

“Mr. Shelby, yeah, you’re looking better, ain’t ya?” Solomons greets as they walk together toward his office. “You had me fucking worried, mate, you know, with the blood and mush coming out your face last time you was here.” He stops abruptly and turns head-on toward Tommy. He points a finger between his eyes. “Right, I can see your blue eyes now, can’t I?” He squints, menacing. They are exactly eye level, which is unnerving for Tommy. He’s accustomed to looking _up_ at threatening men. “Of your hundred men you brought, right, how many are Jews?”

“None,” Tommy replies.

Solomons nods and hums. “Right, good. I would’a checked. What about blacks?”

Tommy blinks. “No.”

Solomons hums again, then looks down at Tommy’s mouth, then back to his eyes, like he’s searching for something. He turns away then and heads into his office, leaving Tommy behind. “You can wait, eat some bread, I ‘on’t fucking care,” he calls over his shoulder. “My lads’ll send your lads in, mate.”

Tommy stands near the queue for the next hour, smoking, watching his men, because they might be signing up to work for Solomons, but Tommy still wants to feel in control. One of his men walks past Tommy on his way out of Solomons’ office, papers in his hand and a frustrated look on his face. Tommy makes eye contact with him and tilts his head for the man to come over to him.

“You all right, Donal?” Tommy asks as he lights another cigarette.

“Yeah, all right, Tommy.” Donal looks down at his papers and then quickly back up at Tommy, whispering now. “Solomons is, uh, odd.”

Tommy almost smiles. “Yeah.”

“He, uh.” Donal clears his throat.

“Tell me.”

“When he handed me the papers, he grabbed my hand to stop me from walking off. Then he, uh, called me a ‘pretty thing’ and told me to fuck off.”

Tommy turns his head away from Donal to blow smoke into the air. “Did he do anything similar to any of the others?”

“Not anybody in front of me that I could see. Like he singled me out.” He clears his throat again. “He’s real intimidating, Tom.”

“I know. It’ll be all right, Donal.” Tommy watches as the last man leaves the office, followed by Ollie and Solomons. “Now, do as he said, fuck off,” he says casually with a pat to Donal’s back to get him to move.

Solomons stalks up to Tommy a moment later, shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hair haphazardly combed over. He studies Tommy for a moment then says, “Right, so tha’s done. Since they are your men and all, you know, you can give the little speech to get them started and all that, yeah?” Solomons presses his thumb lightly against Tommy’s left cheek, so quick that Tommy just blinks in response. “Got a nice little scar there now, eh? Prob’ly for the best, that—don’t know how you get any fucking lads to listen to you with a perfect fucking face like that, mate. Get ‘em in line now, you know, let’s get started.” Solomons speaks and moves so quickly that Tommy ends up simply ignoring him completely and going straight to stand in front of his men.

As he speaks, Tommy can feel Solomons’ presence behind him, waiting. What he is waiting for Tommy does not know until one of his men makes a joke about not seeing any bread, and that is when Tommy instinctively turns to Solomons to give him the floor.

Tommy feels nothing when Solomons knocks a man out. He feels nothing when he shouts. He feels nothing when he says all of the things Tommy was supposed to say to his men. It is only when Solomons turns his head so Tommy can see his profile as he refers to himself as a _complete fucking sodomite_ that something stirs inside Tommy, deep and warm and unfamiliar since before the war—fear, maybe.

He ignores it.

When Solomons kills Billy Kitchen and frames Arthur for it, Tommy is not surprised. Annoyed, but not surprised. Since his first meeting with Solomons, he had begun thinking ahead to what exactly he would do when Solomons inevitably betrayed him. And now that Tommy is sure he is due to die soon, it takes some of the pressure off.

Ollie barely acknowledges James when Tommy shows up at the bakery with him in tow. Tommy is confident in his plan, but he still feels a bit uneasy when he sits down across from Solomons and realizes everything is going smoothly so far. Though he would never admit it, he feels more comfortable when things go poorly for him.

Solomons has his feet up on his desk, pencil and paper in hand, and he does not look up when Tommy sits. Tommy looks at him, considers taking out a cigarette, but decides he should wait for the telephone to ring first. Ollie stands off to the side and looks at Tommy curiously before leaning down to whisper something into Solomons’ ear. Solomons tilts his face up to listen but trains his eyes on Tommy. Solomons then pats Ollie on the cheek and whispers, “Thanks, love,” as Ollie stands back up to his full height.

The telephone rings a few moments later. A weight lifts from Tommy’s shoulders at the sound of his brother’s voice. He hangs up and takes out a cigarette. Now he has to maintain control over the next few minutes of conversation, no matter what. Solomons is formidable, unpredictable, but Tommy is determined to hold his own against him. The second Solomons smacks Ollie with an open hand and tells him to sit in the corner like a little boy, Tommy knows he is winning. He does not break eye contact with Solomons as he makes his story more believable, as he describes his role in the war, as he negotiates Solomons down to 35 percent. As Solomons squints at him, strokes his beard, tries to catch him in a lie, Tommy struggles to keep his face neutral. He does not want to show Solomons that he _likes_ this.

“Fuck me,” Solomons curses as he gives up. He smiles just barely, like he’s impressed—like _he_ likes this, too.

Tommy stops himself from smiling back.

After they shake hands, Solomons insists on walking Tommy out. He tells Ollie not to follow them.

As they walk together, Solomons puts his arm around Tommy’s shoulder and puts his face so close to Tommy’s ear that his beard tickles his skin. “Ollie tell me that anarchist you brought with you, from the good family, yeah, tha’ he’s a fucking poof, mate.”

Tommy blinks. “And?”

Solomons removes his arm from around Tommy and makes a noise in the back of his throat. “All right, Tommy. Get your fucking grenade, go on. I ‘on’t even want’a know if it were a bluff or not, so don’t tell me—pretend to pick up a grenade if you have to, yeah? Lovely doing business with you, as always, mate.”

James does not ask any questions, which is why Tommy hired him for this job in the first place. As they leave the bakery together, they walk side by side in silence and smoke cigarettes. After a few minutes, however, James says, “There were a couple of men like me working there.”

Tommy considers asking James how he knows this. Instead, he says, “I know, James. Best to keep it to ourselves, eh?”

James huffs a disbelieving laugh. He doesn’t say anything else.

Several months pass. Business is going well, Tommy is considering buying a manor. He receives a letter from Mr. Solomons on a dreary summer day. All it says is, “Care for a visit? I’d like to see how that scar on your cheek is looking.” As soon as Tommy is done reading it, he throws the letter in the fire. Then he clears his diary to make a trip to Camden Town in three days’ time.

When he arrives at the bakery, Solomons himself opens the door for him and leads him inside to his office. He walks two feet ahead of Tommy and makes no conversation.

Once he is sat across from Solomons, Tommy says, “Your letters aren’t nearly as loquacious as you are in person.”

“Right, Tommy, a letter can’t be loquacious, because loquaciousness s’about speaking, you know, and a letter is fucking writing, so you just showed me right there that you got your learning from books and not from a proper fucking education, right, you never had a nun tha' beat you ‘til you could see the face of God, yeah? You Gypsies is Catholic, ain’t’cha? But, I’m guessing, _you_ got none of that indelible religious schooling you gentiles is so fond of because you grew up in a box or summat?”

Tommy blinks. “We don’t like that word.”

Solomons smiles, showing every one of his crooked teeth as he leans back in his chair. “Yeah, they’s words us Jews don’t like either, mate. But at least I di’n’t kick the shit out of ya while I said it, right?”

Tommy looks at him for a moment. Solomons looks back. Tommy breaks the silence. “Why am I here, Alfie?”

Solomons snaps his fingers and points directly at Tommy’s face, smile reappearing. “That, right there, mate. You called me Alfie. So now I’m Alfie, you know, we’re friends—mates. So tell me, Tom, how did’ya decide to let black lads into your little organization, letting ‘em get the silly fucking haircut and all that?”

“What?”

“You got women, too, I heard. How’s that work, mate? D’you fuck the ones who work for ya?”

Tommy looks to his left and right, as if hoping someone will show up and explain to him what Alfie is on about. But they are the only two people in the room. “What are you on about?” he asks.

Alfie leans forward, elbows resting on the desk. “Do you.” He points at Tommy, condescending. “Fuck. The ones who work for you, mate?”

“The Peaky Blinders believe in the equal rights of wom—”

“Oh, fuck off with tha’, Tommy, no ya don’t,” Alfie replies with a flick of his wrist. “Look, mate, you don’t have to pretend with me, right?”

Tommy lets another beat of silence pass before he says again, “Alfie. Why am I here?”

Alfie props his feet up on the desk and steeples his fingers together as he studies Tommy. “We can’t hide what we are,” he says slowly. “You and I are the same.” He leans forward again, grin on his face as he changes his tone back to triviality. “So no secrets, Tommy, yeah?”

Tommy frowns, furrows his brow. “I have no secrets to hide from you, Alfie.”

Alfie points at him and winks. “Yeah, sure you don’t, mate. Come on, ‘llow us to show you how your 35 fucking percent is operating.”

The next letter Tommy receives from Alfie is just a few weeks later. “Come break bread with me, mate,” is all it says.

Same routine: burn the letter, clear the diary, head into Camden Town alone for a few days. This time, when Tommy arrives at the bakery, Ollie greets him at the door and tells him Alfie’s in his office and that he said Tommy is welcome to go right in. Tommy knocks anyway, waiting for Alfie’s, “Yeah, mate, door’s open,” before stepping inside.

Tommy does not see Alfie right away, what with his desk chair being empty, but he can hear Alfie grunting the way he does as part of his regular speech pattern. After a few seconds, Alfie’s muffled voice says, “All right, tha’s it, fuck off,” before a tall man with a head full of dark curly hair hurries past Tommy with a handkerchief pressed against his mouth, his gaze toward the floor. Alfie steps out from behind a wall with an annoyed look on his face as he shoves the tail of his shirt into the waistband of his trousers, then buttons his trousers as he sits at his desk.

Tommy clears his throat.

“Oh, please, Tom, spare me the offended politeness, all right? Have a seat, you know, I did ask you here for business purposes, so let’s skip this bit of awkwardness for now, yeah?”

Tommy sits. He does not say anything, because he has no idea what he is supposed to say. Fortunately for him, Alfie can hold a conversation whether Tommy has anything to contribute or not.

That night, Tommy stays with Ada and returns to the bakery first thing the following morning. He hopes he and Alfie can wrap up their business by midday so Tommy can return to Birmingham that night.

Ollie only nods to Tommy as he makes his way inside and heads toward Alfie’s office. He does not bother knocking this time.

The same man with the dark curly hair is pushed up against the wall by Alfie’s desk, his hands behind his back and his apron askew on account of Alfie’s right hand being shoved down the front of his trousers. Alfie’s left hand is bracing himself against the wall, right by the other man’s shoulder, and Alfie is fully clothed, thrusting his hips against the man as they kiss. Alfie is half a foot shorter than the man, but it doesn’t matter. Alfie’s presence is big, imposing, and the other man shrinks in his giant shadow.

Tommy pulls out a cigarette. He smokes and watches.

Only a couple of minutes pass before the man gasps, shudders, Alfie’s movements slowing until finally his hand appears from beneath the man’s apron. He grasps the back of the man’s head and pulls him down to kiss him on the cheek before whispering, “Tha’s it, fuck off,” and pushing him toward the door.

Tommy inhales deeply on his cigarette, left hand shoved into his pocket.

Alfie clears his throat and reaches down to his groin, adjusting himself before sitting at his desk. “Have a seat, Tommy,” he says casually, placing his glasses on his nose and sorting through papers.

Tommy does not say anything as he sits.

“Right, so where did we leave off yesterday? Some fucking nonsense about shipping barrels to the Americans, was tha' it?”

Tommy lights up another cigarette and stares at a spot behind Alfie’s head.

Alfie peers up from behind his glasses and waits a moment. After about 10 seconds, he removes his glasses. “Thomas. Any fucking time now, mate.”

“Do you fuck gentiles, too, Alfie?”

Alfie narrows his eyes. “What do you think, mate?”

Tommy puts out his cigarette and looks down at the desk, gesturing at the papers. “All right then, talk to me about the Americans.”

They do not wrap up their business by midday. Tommy is bone-tired by the time he is leaving the bakery well after dark, too tired to immediately walk to Ada’s. He stands just outside the bakery, on Bonnie Street, and leans against a brick wall to smoke. He is halfway through his fourth cigarette when he hears Alfie’s unmistakable mutterings, the press of his cane against the stone as he walks up to stand next to Tommy.

“I thought you only needed the cane in the winter,” Tommy states without turning toward Alfie.

“What a curious fucking thing to say when you obviously been standing out here waiting for me, mate.”

Tommy still doesn’t turn toward him. “Do they all know? Your men.”

Alfie makes a noncommittal noise. “Nah, well, you know—yeah, they fucking do, Tom. Tha’s kinda the point, innit?”

“The point?”

Alfie steps in front of Tommy, forcing him to look at him. He tilts his head back so Tommy can see his eyes under the brim of his hat. “Man like you come in, right? And you bring a hundred other men, you see it, they see it, everybody fucking knows it—” He points at his own face, “—and I’m still Alfie Solomons, mate. I’m still of a particular standing with a particular kind of influence, and nobody has said a fucking thing to try and take it from me, right? And why d’you think that is, Tommy?”

Tommy’s eyes flicker down to Alfie’s mouth and then back up. “They fear the consequences of saying something.”

Alfie points at Tommy’s face, his finger nearly brushing his nose. “Keeping it a secret are how you get fucked, mate.” He looks off to the side and spreads his hand out toward the street. “You and all the lads in London, hell, I ‘on’t care, the fuckers in Small Heath, could’a done summat about me at any time, but you di’n’t. _That_ is how I know my place in this world, Tom.”

Tommy blinks, looks at Alfie’s mouth again.

Alfie presses his thumb to Tommy’s cheek. Quickly, he moves his hand around the back of Tommy’s neck and pulls him forward, kissing him on the cheek before Tommy can stop him. He walks away without another word, leaning heavily on his cane, and Tommy watches him until he disappears around a corner.

Tommy heads back to Birmingham early the next morning.

Months pass with nothing from Alfie. Tommy buys a manor. He does business with Russians, gets his skull cracked. It might be the recklessness leading him, but he sends Alfie a letter asking for his help, asking him to come to Birmingham as if they are on equal footing. He does not know how wary he should act when Alfie actually shows up.

“Good morning, Mr. Solomons,” Tommy greets as he finds Alfie standing in his drawing room, staring out the window. He looks bigger than the last time Tommy saw him, more imposing.

“Yeah, it’s ‘Mr. Solomons’ now, innit? Nice little place you got here, Thomas. What is it? Ol’ foreclosure of a gambling debt from some poor young lord who you pumped full of opium in one of your casinos or is tha’ just tittle-tattle?”

Tommy ignores him. “Drink?”

“Nah, I don’t touch it, mate.” Alfie walks toward Tommy, cane in hand. “Your housekeeper said you’re not allowed to drink. Eh? She said you are suffering from so many ancient injuries from your sporting life that your head is like some sort of smashed vase what’s been stuck back together by an horse.” He squints at Tommy and looks at his face for a moment before pressing his thumb against the scar on Tommy’s cheek.

Tommy turns away from him and sits. Alfie follows.

“Now. Word in London is that you can be found wandering the streets of Birmingham stark naked, throwing away money. You talk to dead people.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “Also, that you believe tha’ you are powerful enough to summon up Jews of a very particular standing up to the gentile wilderness wherein you live in order for them to do your fucking bidding, mate.”

“And yet still you came,” Tommy replies, not daring to look over at Alfie.

“Yeah. Well, y’know, I was passing, weren’t I?”

“Do you know something, Alfie? This morning, I tried to read the paper, and I realized that the only consequence of my terrible accident is that I now need glasses.”

“Right.” Alfie nods. He pulls out his glasses. “Right. Well, I know a man, right, who can make you a pair of these. Now, he is a magician, mate. He is a magician. So not only will you be able to read your newspaper, but you will also be able to see into the future. Now I know this, right, because he made this pair here for me. So you don’t have to worry about telling me what this is all about, do you, because I have already seen it.” Alfie puts his glasses away. “You’re fucking about with the Russians, inn’t you, you silly boy?”

Tommy closes his eyes. “Yes. And I need your help, Alfie.”

Alfie tsks. “Well, yeah, obviously, why else would I be here?”

Tommy hides the surprise from his face. He had assumed it would take more convincing, maybe even a deal, for Alfie to agree to help him. But as he tells Alfie his plan, Alfie just hums and nods and asks no questions.

Alfie does a better job handling the Russians than Tommy could have ever imagined. When their business is finished and the 70,000 pounds’ worth of jewelry secured, the Russians tell Tommy to join the party upstairs while Alfie is asked to leave. Tommy interrupts, insists that Alfie is his guest and can stay and join the party if he chooses.

Alfie turns his head slowly to Tommy, looking up at him with narrowed eyes and a set to his jaw. Tommy turns away from him and heads back toward the stairs.

Tommy drinks. He picks a spot on a couch and keeps his arm around Tatiana and he drinks. Just as he has drank nearly enough to forget that he wanted Alfie at this party, Alfie appears in the doorway and immediately locks eyes on Tommy. He points at him then crooks his finger before turning away, disappearing back through the door.

Tommy knocks back the rest of his drink and pushes himself up to stand, taking a moment to catch his balance before trying to walk. Tatiana calls after him to ask where he’s going, and he shouts over his shoulder at her to stay where she is.

Tommy easily finds Alfie waiting for him, stood in the middle of a dark room, arms crossed over his chest, staring at a mostly naked woman passed out on the rug by the window. When Tommy enters, Alfie uncrosses his arms and stalks up to him, coming so close that Tommy can see the whites of his eyes in the dark.

“You don’t invite me to Russian orgies, Tom, right, because I am not your dog that follows you around and feeds your arrogance, am I? When they tell me to take my leave, I take my fucking leave, and you fuck off and don’t tell me where to fucking go and what to fucking do, now, do you, Tommy?”

Tommy parts his lips. He looks down at Alfie’s mouth.

Alfie breathes in deep, his shoulders expanding and his mouth flattening into a hard line as he surveys Tommy.

“Yet here you are,” Tommy whispers.

A dark look crosses Alfie’s face, and just as Tommy knows for certain that Alfie is about to hit him with the flat of his hand, Alfie looks down at his mouth instead.

Tommy grabs Alfie by the back of the neck, pulling him forward and sealing their mouths together so forcefully that their teeth knock. Alfie makes a primal noise in the back of his throat and grips Tommy’s hips to shove him back against a bookcase. He slots his thigh against Tommy’s groin, breaks their kiss to work on his neck instead, then reaches his right hand down to palm Tommy’s cock.

Tommy arches into the touch. He wraps his hands around Alfie’s back and balls a fist into the fabric of his waistcoat and tries to make his brain focus on the fact that he wanted to maintain control of this situation, wanted to be the one leading it, and he needs to do something quickly to regain the upper hand or else—

“On your knees,” Alfie commands as he works on the buttons of his own trousers.

When Tommy does not obey right away, Alfie places a hand on his shoulder and shoves him down so hard that Tommy chokes back a gasp as his knees hit the floor. Alfie wraps his right hand around the back of Tommy’s neck and holds him still while his left hand pulls out his cock, and Tommy tries to reach for Alfie to speed the process up, but Alfie pushes Tommy’s hands out of the way and tsks at him.

“Patience, Thomas,” Alfie says quietly immediately before shoving his cock into Tommy’s mouth.

Alfie is rough, and loud, and Tommy’s ears are ringing as Alfie thrusts into his mouth while pushing against the back of his neck, and Tommy keeps his hands to himself, not even daring to press any kind of relief against his erection because he doesn’t want Alfie to stop and chastise him. Except part of him definitely _does_ want Alfie to chastise him, but he’s pushing that feeling down as deep as it will go.

When Alfie finishes, he holds Tommy’s head against him, which is all right with Tommy because he was planning on swallowing anyway. Alfie groans loudly, pets the top of Tommy’s head, then steps back from him and leaves the room, fixing his clothes as he goes.

Tommy stares at the door, his mouth open, then he looks over at the woman passed out on the other side of the room and readjusts himself so he is sat against the bookcase instead of on his knees. He drops his head back and presses the palm of his hand against the front of his trousers.

Tommy wakes up late the next morning, alone in his bed, naked with a pounding headache. He takes his time getting dressed. As he is walking down the stairs, his housekeeper informs him that “the Jewish man” is waiting in the drawing room.

Alfie is dressed the same as the night before, no coat or hat, but he holds his cane in his lap as he sits in a chair by Tommy’s desk and flips through one of the books from Tommy’s shelves. 

Tommy goes to the window and stares out of it as he lights up a cigarette.

“The funniest thing happened to me last night, you won’t believe it when I tell ya,” Alfie begins. “After I left some terribly boring party, I went to stay in a shithole in Birmingham for the night, and as I lay my head down and I closed my eyes, I realized I could no longer see the future.”

Tommy hears Alfie walk up next to him. He sees him in his periphery, but he does not turn to face him.

“Right, ‘cause I saw up to the part where my circumcised cock was in your pretty little gentile mouth, but I _did not_ see the part where I couldn’t get any fucking sleep on account’a having you rattling ‘round in my head, mate.”

That makes Tommy turn. He lips fall open as he looks at Alfie—Alfie, whose chin is jutting out and his eyebrows furrowed in a look of both shame and vulnerability.

Tommy inhales on his cigarette just to give his mouth something to do until he figures out what to say.

He looks out the window again. “That’s funny. I didn’t think about you at all after you left me, fully clothed, on me knees.” He turns toward Alfie and looks him in the eye, shrugging. “I slept great.”

Alfie’s mouth twitches in annoyance. He looks away from Tommy. “Right. Well.” He taps his cane on the floor. “I’ll see you, Tommy.”

Tommy waits until Alfie has left the room before he says quietly, “Goodbye, Alfie.”

Alfie sends another letter a month later, insisting that Tommy come to Camden Town for “business reasons only.” He makes the trip. They discuss business and only business for two days straight. When Alfie interacts with his workers, even Ollie, he does not touch them or get close to them or use pet names with them. Tommy thinks nothing of it.

It is the same two weeks later. Tommy and Alfie spend several days working together in the bakery, with Alfie on his best behavior, until they are wrapping up in his office late one night and Alfie pours a glass of whiskey for Tommy and then crosses his arms over his chest, pouting.

“Ollie, poor thing, keeps try’na ask me what’s wrong,” Alfie says. “And I can’t tell him, can I, that the reason why I hadn’t touched him or any other lad in the past month is tha’ I still feel _you_ on me, Tommy Shelby.”

Tommy takes a drink and then pulls from his cigarette before responding. “I do fuck the ones who work for me.”

Alfie looks at him, confused.

“You asked me if I fuck the women who work for me. Some of them, I do. One of them has been very good to me this past month.”

Alfie’s nostrils flare, his jaw clenches.

Tommy lets himself smile as he puts his cigarette out. “You should get some sleep, Alfie. You look worn down.”

Alfie expands his chest with a deep breath and closes his right hand into a fist against his desk. “You’re gonna get yourself killed with that arrogance one day, mate.”

Tommy stands to take his leave. “I’m counting on it.”

Tommy invites Alfie to Birmingham to ask for his advice about his new gin distillery. Alfie shows up with three other men and keeps them close as he and Tommy conduct business. Alfie is lighthearted and jovial, but Tommy can see the anger bubbling beneath the surface. Throughout the day, Tommy stands too close to Alfie, brushes their hands together, whispers in his ear, and Alfie keeps his face stoic and his fists clenched through it all.

At the end of the day, Tommy invites Alfie to the Garrison and is surprised when he agrees. Alfie lets his men go for the day, then he places his hat on his head and tells Tommy to lead the way.

On the walk over, Tommy keeps his hands in his pockets and does not attempt to make conversation. Alfie is quiet, too, at first, until the Garrison is in sight and he insists that they stop so he can smoke a pipe outside.

“I decided summat, Tommy,” Alfie says before inhaling his pipe and exhaling through his nostrils. “I decided to believe tha’ you put a Gypsy curse on me, right, and tha’ I am destined to live out the remainder of my measly, queer existence unable to satisfy my desires because I have sinned, hadn’t I, by tainting myself with a gentile.” He takes another pull from his pipe. “A wild fucking gentile with no regard for his own well-being or his own self-interest because if he really knew what were good for him, right, he’d be a good little boy and let himself be _tamed.”_ Alfie spits out the last word and then takes a step back from Tommy, obviously forcing himself not to lose control. The anger simmers.

Tommy pulls out a cigarette, rubs it across his lips, smokes it for a moment. He takes a step toward Alfie, into his personal space, and lifts the brim of Alfie’s hat before stroking a hand down his face, feeling his beard. He blows smoke in Alfie’s face. “Do you want to fuck me, Alfie?”

Alfie grabs the front of Tommy’s waistcoat and shoves him back against a wall, so fast that all Tommy can think to do is smile in response. Their noses are so close they are nearly touching, a reminder to Tommy that despite how big Alfie seems, they are the same height, eye-to-eye.

“Which desire is stronger, the one to fuck me or the one to kill me?” Tommy whispers.

Alfie’s eyes dart around Tommy’s face until they reach his mouth. He stares for a moment before forcefully letting go of Tommy and stepping away from him.

Tommy adjusts his waistcoat. “All right, then, to the Garrison.”

The bar is busy, so Tommy leads Alfie into the snug, closes the door and orders a bottle of whiskey. Alfie reminds him that he doesn’t drink, and Tommy responds that the bottle is only for himself. Alfie drinks water.

The first drink Tommy pours for himself, he knocks back in one pull and then slams the glass down on the table. He leans back on the bench seat, legs spread, and rests his arms up on the wall behind him.

“I would like your mouth on me, Alfie,” he says quietly.

Alfie narrows his eyes at him. “Gypsy fucking curse,” he mutters under his breath. He gets to his feet laboriously, making a show of it, before sitting next to Tommy and slotting a hand against his groin, over his trousers. He looks into Tommy’s eyes and moves his hand in a slow rhythm.

Tommy tosses his head back, wraps his arm around the back of Alfie’s neck, knocking his hat off in the process, and he maintains control for all of five seconds before shoving Alfie back against the bench and turning to straddle his lap, sealing their mouths together and reveling in the taste of smoke, the scratch of Alfie’s beard against his skin. Alfie is even worse off, his movements frantic as he blindly shoves a hand down the front of Tommy’s trousers and erratically bucks his hips up into him, making hungry noises in the back of his throat while they kiss.

Alfie’s hand is not enough, his rings cold against Tommy’s cock, but Tommy is so pent up that he might come anyway. It would be better if they were naked, if they weren’t just rutting against each other in a stilted rhythm, but the game has ended and they have both lost.

The door to the snug opens, Arthur’s voice carrying inside before stopping mid-sentence and calling out an expletive and slamming the door shut again. Tommy panics, nearly falls to the floor as he scrambles out of Alfie’s lap and buttons his trousers. He runs a hand through his hair, straightens his waistcoat and opens the door expecting to find Arthur traumatized on the other side, but Arthur is simply leaning up against the bar casually asking for a drink.

Alfie hits his shoulder into Tommy as he passes by him. “Right, to your house, then,” he grumbles as he stalks out the door of the Garrison.

Tommy catches up with him, both of them walking faster than they normally would as they approach Tommy’s car. Once inside it, Alfie says calmly, “Like I said. You can’t keep it a secret, mate.”

"Arthur will have something to say," Tommy replies as he drives. 

Alfie reaches over and grips Tommy's thigh. "We push the limits, Tom. You learn how powerful you are, right, by hiding nothing from them."

"How long did it take you to know?" Tommy pauses. "What did I do to make you see it in me?"

Alfie gently rubs his thigh. "Moment I met ya. I can see into the future, remember?" 

Tommy lets out a breath and grips the steering wheel tighter. 

When they reach Tommy’s house, Tommy announces that he would like a drink and asks Alfie to join him in the drawing room.

Alfie glares at him for 10 seconds before saying, “Tommy, if I ‘on’t get to fuck you in the next five minutes, I will choose to kill you instead.”

So Tommy leads Alfie up to his bedroom. There is an urgency to the stripping of their clothes. Tommy does not even have time to admire the surprisingly fit build of Alfie’s naked body before the man is on top of him in bed, burying himself deep inside Tommy and kissing his neck and chest as he thrusts into him so hard that the bed frame hits the wall. Alfie does so much of the work that Tommy is able to light up a cigarette and smoke it, his free arm lazily wrapped around Alfie’s back, and he finally feels like he has some semblance of control in this relationship with this strange man, but then he comes abruptly with a startled shout, Alfie’s hand wrapped tight around his cock, and he loses all the thoughts in his head. Alfie comes minutes later and collapses on top of Tommy, his beard tickling Tommy’s chest and his breathing labored. Tommy continues smoking.

“Tommy.”

“Yes, Alfie.”

“If you ignore me after this, right, I _will_ kill you.”

Tommy shifts, making Alfie move over so he is tucked up against Tommy’s side, Tommy’s arm wrapped around his back to hold him in place. “Get some sleep, Alfie.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [tomhardysteeth](http://tomhardysteeth.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.
> 
> [Rebloggable link](https://tomhardysteeth.tumblr.com/post/617151668049575936/everybody-knows-mate-tommy-x-alfie-69k-ao3-the)


End file.
